


You've Proven You're the One

by comeblaqtome



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Creampie, Flashbacks, M/M, Middle aged husbands love each other, Oral Sex, PWP, Trans Stanley Uris, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 08:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeblaqtome/pseuds/comeblaqtome
Summary: Porn without plot, 40 year old men fuck and remember how much they've always loved each other.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 99





	You've Proven You're the One

Stan steps out of the shower and towels his hair just dry enough to stop it dripping. He slings his damp towel low on his hips and wipes the middle of the mirror with his hand so he can see. He grabs a bottle of conditioner from the medicine cabinet and spreads a couple pumps between his palms to work through his curls. 

“I don’t get how you can use that stuff. It makes my hair so greasy,” Bill’s voice comes from the bedroom, just beyond the cracked open bathroom door. Stan jumps a little, not expecting him to be there. Stan always showers just after getting home, says he can’t stand the day to stay on him until bedtime. Bill usually isn’t home until near dinner.

“Curly hair is different. You know what I’d look like without a leave-in conditioner? Besides, How are you home so early?” Stan leans against the doorframe.

“The weather’s getting bad, I didn’t want to get stuck in it,” he lays his messenger bag at the foot of the bed, where he’ll later trip over it. “Are you hungry yet?”

“I don’t know, depends what you’re making” Stan crosses to the closet and opens the top drawer, but Bill’s hand closes over his wrist before he can grab his favorite pair of boxer briefs.

“Hm, do you really think you need those?” He presses himself to Stan’s back, his nose nuzzles into still-damp curls. 

“I think it’s frowned upon to go to the dinner table commando,” he knows what Bill wants, but he likes to make him ask for it. The grin that plays at the corners of his mouth gives him away.

“I’ll make it quick,” which is probably true, he’s already half hard and Stan can feel it on his ass as Bill presses closer to him.

“I don’t like it quick,” which is definitely true, Stan likes to have sex for hours, sometimes all night, and even entire weekends when they take vacations, barely stopping to eat and sleep.

“We’ve got an hour until whatever’s in the crockpot is ready.”

Stan turns around, thinking maybe he can weasel his way into topping if he’s quick about it, but Bill’s hands slide up from his waist so his thumbs can trace the scars across Stan’s chest and he’s already melting. He kisses Bill, long and slow and lazy, and pops open the buttons on his shirt the same way. He supposes Bill did have the advantage of being the only one of them fully clothed.

Bill pulls it off his arms nearly frantically, his undershirt following suit, flinging then both to the floor. Stan’s hands wander up and down those arms, thankful that Bill had joined that recreational baseball league, and the way his biceps had firmed up from it. Stan admires Bill’s body, he always has, and he finds he loves him more and more with the changes age brings to him. The contrast of their bodies together, Bill broad and muscular, Stan lithe and lean, is enough to start his heart racing. 

Bill pushes the shirts hanging above the dresser to the side, giving him enough room to lift Stan up and sit him on it. Stan’s lips stop their kissing on Bill’s beautiful shoulders to say “You’re not fucking me on the dresser,” his teeth graze the flesh there to show he’s not kidding.

“Except I am,” Bill sighs, he loves when Stan bites, but won’t admit it. He’s already undoing his belt, needing relief from the pressure building below it.

“It’s an antique, you know.” 

“Which means we probably aren’t the first,” he drops to his knees, unfolds Stan’s towel, and presses a kiss to his inner thigh. It earns him a shiver, whether from his kiss or from the cool air touching Stan’s exposed skin, he isn’t sure, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything Stan is merciful enough to dole out to him.

He remembers the first time he kissed Stan just then, for some reason, and his heart swells as his tongue traces a line up his thigh, teasing closer and closer to his core. It was a party, somewhere, someone’s basement, he remembers, and some girl had dragged him into a circle to play spin the bottle. Stan had stood out, in a more awkward stage of the teenage years than most because of his transition, but his 15-year-old heart ached for a first kiss just like the rest of them. And when Bill spun the bottle, it had pointed between two girls, straight to one Stanley Uris, holding a warm beer and blushing rather noticeably as everyone’s eyes had turned on him. Then, in a moment Bill had only dreamed of since their first summer together, he stood up, leaving the circle all together, and kissed him. Stan’s lips were as soft as he’d imagined, and if he had known anything at all about kissing, maybe he could have made it last longer.

But they’d had plenty of opportunities to remedy that. And now, Bill places a kiss on one of his favorite spots, a freckle right in the seam where Stan’s thigh meets his pelvis. “I love you,” he says, sounding too sincere for the moment he’s tracing Stan’s vulva with his thumb.

“Shut up,” Stan replies, though his fingers caressing over the shell of Bill’s ear show he feels the same. His lets his head tilt back as Bill’s middle finger sinks into him, sighs with relief as it finds its way as deep as possible. He loves Bill’s fingers, watches them constantly, when he’s typing, or mincing garlic, or running them through his hair. Stan runs his hand down Bill’s left arm, beckoning his hand upward, and kisses the tips of those fingers as Bill slowly works another digit of his right into him. 

Stan’s reminded of the first time they made love. He hates that wording but can’t help but call it that, the way they were both so green, so tender with each other. Bill’s old truck had taken them out of town, driving aimlessly as they often did, their hands reaching slowly toward each other across the cracked vinyl of the bench seat, and Stan had thought maybe he could take that hand to his lips. He kissed the web between Bill’s thumb and forefinger, gentle and innocent, and Bill gave him a soft chuckle in response, said it tickled. Stan placed a kiss on the pad of his index finger, then the middle, then the ring, taking each one just a bit farther past his lips. Before he could move to his pinkie, Bill glanced back and forth between Stan’s mouth and the road, “Sh-should I pull o-ov-over?” 

“If you don’t want to wreck.” Bill took the turn a little harder than he should have, onto a dirt road nobody would see them down. He shifted into park and Stan was on him in an instant, lips interlocked and tongue in his mouth, desperate in a way Bill had never seen him before. Bill held him by the shoulders and kissed him back, until Stan’s breath shook between them, “I don’t want you to leave.” 

“I kn-know, but college is th-the best shot I’ve g-g-got…. I have to,” his eyes betrayed how much he didn’t mean it. In three days he’d be gone, in four he’d be missing the scent of cucumber in blond curls.

And by the time he finished his degree, he wouldn’t remember Stan at all. Stan, his first kiss. Stan, his first dance. Stan, his first love. Stan, his first aching loneliness in his chest that he can’t quite fill with the short stories he churns out desperately at midnights, not knowing they’re memories. 

“But you’ll come back, right? Every break?” Stan’s fingers ran through Bill’s hair like it would be the last time he would touch him. Like he knew. 

“I can’t st-st-ay away from you,” Bill kissed him again, and he could taste the sorrow on his lips. His hands wandered up Stan’s maroon t-shirt, his fingers fiddling under the edge of his binder, asking for permission. 

“I want all of you. Tonight. Before you go,” Stan’s eyes were wide and dark in the low light cast by the moon streaming in through the truck’s dusty window, “If you’re ready, I mean.” 

Bill’s hands swept around to rest on Stan’s shoulder blades, and he nodded, not wanting to ruin the moment stuttering out a response he knew he was sure of. 

“I wish I’d never lost you,” Stan whispers without thinking, as thunder rumbles so low outside it nearly shakes the floorboards, the sound is so close. Bill shivers against him, tongue circling his clit, thunder and his love being his only weaknesses. He can still taste soap on his skin.

Bill meets his gaze, tries to make his misty eyes reassuring as he thinks of all the wasted time, “You never did. I’m right here,” he licks his wet fingers clean and watches how it turns Stan on, despite his protests.

“Don’t patronize me, you know what I mean,” he’s biting his lip, trying to keep himself from coming undone. Bill stands and places a kiss under the curve of Stan’s jaw and Stan drags his nails down Bill’s bare back. Bill nips and kisses and nibbles at the skin there, and thinks he might leave a hickey there, say something about making up for their early 20’s.

Stan’s a goner the second Bill touches his neck, he wraps his legs around his strong waist, hands wandering and caressing and grabbing as he relishes in the heat Bill’s sending straight to his gut. Bill’s hands find their way under Stan’s ass and lift him a little to get a good angle as he rolls his hips, jeans already having fallen enough to expose the bulge straining against his cotton boxers.

“Fuck…” Stan mutters as his muddied thoughts wander back and forth between ‘yes, please, more’ and ‘Bill’s going to need the heating pad for his back if he keeps this up’.

Bill holds him closer, heaves him up onto his shoulder and carries him the six paces to their bed before tossing him down. Stan’s grin spreads wide, “I told you we weren’t fucking on the dresser.”

Bill crawls onto the bed over him, knees placed on either side of his hips, and kisses him languidly. Stan snakes his hand down between them to stroke Bill through the thin barrier of his clothes and he can’t help the sigh that escapes him when he finds how hard he is, “How bad do you want me?” The rain is coming down hard, so loud against the window they can’t whisper to each other anymore.

“Can’t you tell?” Bill bucks into his hand, moans low in his throat.

“Can’t you tell me?” Stan’s eyes are wide enough to eat him alive. He loves to tease, and is fully prepared to finish Bill in his underwear if he doesn’t play along.

Bill groans as Stan’s fingertips brush ever-so-lightly down his length, “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he tries to press his hips into Stan’s touch, but he easily pulls his hand back to keep his same attention, “ugh, I just wanna fuck you,” Bill was never good at dirty talk, but Stan was happy to help him.

“You know how wet I am for you, hm? Just for you, Billy,” he palms Bill then, and his deep moan hangs in the air between them, the smallest bit of friction setting him on edge.

His voice seems to drop an octave as Stan works him up, “Wanna show you you’re all mine, fuck your lights out,” Stan’s fingers dip below the waistband of Bill’s underwear, his smooth digits finally touching him in earnest, rewarding his words.

“You want to cum inside of me? Leave me dripping all night? Thinking of you?” his hand strokes Bill slow, slow, painfully slow, his thumb caressing at the head, precum leaking out.

“Yes, Stan, fuck,” Bill’s breathing is shallow, nearly panting. 

Stan’s lips glide over Bill’s ear, “Let me taste you first,” he breathes, the gruff whisper a stark contrast to the clap of thunder that follows it. Stan’s hands grab his shoulders and he flips them over, kissing open-mouth down his chest, his stomach, his fingers dancing in the dark hair leading under the boxers he pulls away. His hand strokes Bill’s length as he lays kisses into his v-lines.

Bill’s fingers knit into his curls, and Stan looks up at him, his eyes fiery, and he takes him into his mouth then. Bill can’t help his gasp, the heat of Stan’s mouth contrasting the chill of the room, and the look on Stan’s face melts him as if he hasn’t seen it a hundred times. Stan’s throat takes him easily, and he hollows his cheeks as his tongue lathes around his shaft, the sensations building and blurring Bill’s mind. 

He’s lust-drunk, and Stan’s hands pin his hips just in time to keep him from bucking them, how he knows it’s coming, Bill can never tell. “Jesus, Stan…” he moans out, voice shaking.

“Jewish, remember?” Stan quips as he releases Bill with a pop and straddles him, sinking him all the way inside without warning. He sighs, the contentment of being full, the familiar stretch of Bill inside of him, the love pulsing through his veins almost too much to handle.

Bill sits up so they’re chest to chest and kisses him, rolling his hips up, and the slow rhythm earns him a whine from Stan as he tastes himself on his husband’s tongue. Stan’s hungry for him, and he ruts his hips against Bill between his slow, shallow thrusts, beckoning him deeper, but it’s Bill’s turn to tease. 

He rolls them over, and Stan hooks his legs over Bill’s shoulders, a perfect position to take all of him, but the stroke of Bill’s hips stops just short of that sweet spot that makes him tingle all the way to his toes. 

Stan’s moaning, lips barely parted, and his half-lidded eyes meet Bill’s, “Getting revenge for my teasing?” 

Bill turns his head to kiss Stan’s calf, “Maybe a little”. The smile he gives is too sweet to fit the moment and Stan’s heart thumps wildly at the sight. He digs his heel into Bill’s back to draw him in, and Bill finally obliges. His hands grab Stan’s hips, his grip gentle while his thrusting becomes relentless. 

Stan’s stream of curses is incoherent and he clutches at Bill’s hair like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away. Bill can tell he’s close as his walls start to clench around him and he mutters little praises to him.

“Bill, Bill!” he gasps out, “Cum, cum for me, please,” and his nails dig into the hollow of Bill’s hip as he finishes, Bill soon after him, his hips stilling as he catches his breath. 

He pulls out, lays on his stomach beside Stan and rubs away the soreness from his hair being pulled. Stan hooks a leg around one of his, still craving closeness, and Bill lays an arm over his chest. 

Bill’s voice is muffled by the pillow, “Hey, Stanley?” 

“Yea, babe?” He replies, staring blindly up at the ceiling.

“Is the heating pad still downstairs?”

Stan smiles to himself.


End file.
